Suze's Girl
by riterandreader
Summary: Suze's daughter. She's in high school, and she's ready to kick some you-know-what. Romance, adventure, and ghosts guaranteed. For simplification purposes, set in 2005 (forgive me).
1. Default Chapter

DISCLAIMER – I don't own any of Meg Cabot's characters: Suze and Jesse (de Silva), nor Paul… etc. She owns them. Not me.

A/N – Suze's Girl is exactly what its title says. It's about Suze's daughter, Christina Jessica (heehee; shout-out to the name, "Jesse") de Silva, who is a shifter, and goes to West Carmel High School (a made-up school. Unless there IS an actual West C. HS; which I don't know about); it has some romance, and action. Mostly romance, because I just like romance.

A/N – I know, I _know_. If I were realistic, this story would take place around, oh… the years 2025-235 give or take a few. But I really_, really_ don't want to write a SCIENCE FICTION novel as well as a supernatural one (ghosts, romance, everything else on top of one-another), so give me a break. I've written it as though it takes place now-a days (2005, you know, etc.). I hope you all forgive me.

_Suze's Girl_

What a loser, I thought. The guy was slugging a backpack on his shoulders that was twice his size, I'm sure. Tall and lanky, that was Benjamin Matthews. I was sitting on one of the stone, waist-high walls at West Carmel High School, under the shade of a particularly large, ancient tree.

"Yo, are you ready to leave, Chris?" Melissa Parker asked me.

"In a second," I said, not tearing my eyes of this guy – it was an interesting sight, watching Benjamin try to open his car, with all the books and papers in his hands, and his backpack on his shoulders. It was raining Calculus and English papers where Benjamin was standing. That's because they were all slipping out of his grip. I probably sound mean, but I'm pretty nice when I decide to be. I do help people, and I'm the Vice President of our school's KEY Club – a community service organization. Right now, however, I was feeling a bit lazy, and was watching with detached fascination.

"You think we should help him?" I asked, offhandedly.

"Nah, he's good. So long as the football players don't beat the poor guy up, I think it's safe for us to leave him alone." Yes. The football players; they can be beastly at times.

"Okay," I finally tore my eyes away as Benjamin finally made it inside of his car. I looked up at Melissa. "Let's go."

"Mom! I'm home!" I tore through the house, marched up the stairs, and dumped my school junk in my bedroom.

"Christina? Is that you?" Mom called up from the kitchen.

"Yeah. Got anything to eat?" I swung in the room, and grabbed the first thing that looked eatable – in this case, it was a banana.

"How was school?" my mom asked as she dried the dishes, and watched me devour the banana in five seconds flat.

I shrugged. "Okay," I said my mouth full of banana mush.

Mom scrunched up her nose at that, "Since when did you learn such bad manners. Certainly not from your father, that's for sure. The way you eat reminds me of your uncles. Remind me to not let you spend as much time with them," she laughed.

"Ha, ha," I said humorlessly. "Very funny, Mom. Uncle Jake, Uncle Brad, and Uncle Dave have been taking me out camping during the summer since, like, forever! Any way," I turned to go, "I've got lots of homework. Senior year is really packing it hard. I feel like all I ever do is homework." I started hiking up the stairs.

My mom called out after me, "And I feel like all you ever do is _avoid_ it."

Hand it to my mom to point out a little thing such as not doing my homework and all. Oh well. Dad would be home soon. He's a doctor, and a pretty good one, too. I'm not sure if that's what _I'd_ want to be, but it's something to consider. I already filled out my stupid, frustrating college apps, and now all that was left to do was to apply for financial aid.

We have been living here in Carmel, California all of my life. My mom moved here as a teen. My parents don't exactly explain how to me how they met… all I know is my dad took Mom out to Winter Formal, and they had been dating since, and all of _that's _been told to be by Grandma. There is no one on my dad's side of the family, as far as _I _know it.

Thank _God_ my mom didn't go all frilly when decorated my bedroom, I thought. She tells me of how it sucked when her mom did that to her bedroom years ago. That's why mine is blue. Blue like the ocean. Sometimes I think about studying oceanography, or something, and study the wildlife out there in the sparkling, aquamarine-blue Pacific Ocean. I got my sense of style from my mom and the love for science from my dad. My dad, who was calling me from downstairs. I was in trouble.

"Christina Jessica de Silva! Get down here right _now_!" I shuffled my way into the dinning room. "_Senorita_, you had better have a good explanation for this," Dad said, waving a piece of paper in his hand. Oh no. My report card. I realized that as soon as I started coming closer, and the paper looked familiar.

"Christina," Dad sighed tiredly. "Why are you slacking now? In your senior year of high school? I know you are a very bright student, and you _can _do this, then what is the problem, _hija_ (daughter)?"

"_Nothing_, Dad…" I said.

"Sweetheart, we're just looking out for your best interest," Mom said gently.

"It's all right, Christina," Dad said, in resolution. "I know it's your last year in high school, and I'll pardon you this time; we are not going to ground you. But," Dad said firmly. "You must raise your grades by next semester."

"Is it shifting that's getting in the way?" Mom asked quietly. Shifting… or what my mom likes to call, mediating. That's what keeps me late at night. Not studying, it's keeping pesky ghosts in their place, or else "guiding them over" to the "next world," wherever that may happen to be – I wouldn't know.

Mom and dad are shifters, and they passed it down on to me. I had no choice, really. So now, I was stuck with this "gift". Luckily I had a shifter mom and dad to help me out with it, because otherwise, I was doomed to sneak out of the house for the rest of my life – or at least until I was eighteen, and moved out to go to college and everything.

So, after we all had dinner, and I promised them I would get my grades up, I went to bed. I thought, exactly _how_ am I going to get my grades up now?

The answer came to me in the form of a collision. Literally; I was walking to my locker, lost in my own thoughts, as I am warrant to do, when a blur passed in front of me. Without warning, _Bam!_ Some one had knocked me over, and was sprawled all over me – not exactly in a good way either. I sputtered, and opened my eyes to see a terrified face looking down at me. "_Benjamin_?" By then, he had scrambled off me, and I heard a booming, Neanderthal voice down the other end of the hallway. "_Matthews_! Get back here," more laughter followed the voice "We're not done with you yet."

Humph. It figured. Dwain, the quarterback, and his entourage were tracking down, and hunting Ben like the frightened rabbit that he was. This pissed me off more than the occasion warranted. Besides, who were they to make fun of Benjamin just because he wasn't some brainless hunk? "Don't worry about it. I got it covered," I informed Benjamin.

"Oh Dwain?" I called, as I stood up, casually brushing off the dust from the ground from my fashionable clothes. "Were you looking for your I.Q., because I think it just left five minutes ago? You had better go back to the football field, and start looking there. At least over there, people don't use as many big words." Hoots and howls followed my witty speech, but Benjamin looked like a dear caught under an SUV's headlights. "What are you doing?" he muttered, anxiously.

But my tact worked. Or I think it did. It could have been possibly due to the fact that the Principal just walked by, too. Either way, Dwain gathered his gang, and they left Benjamin in peace. With a sigh of relief, Benjamin started to go, too. "Not so fast, Matthews," I said. "What? No thank you? I'm not asking for a bouquet of roses, just a simple 'thank you' will do."

Benjamin got all hot and red. "Yeah – well… that is - er, I mean to say – thanks…"

"No problem," I grin widely, which got Benjamin blushing even more. He started looking like a red traffic signal, if you asked me.

I leaned over and started picking up his papers, which had scattered all of the ground – yet again. I couldn't help but notice, with each paper I picked up, a glaring, "A+" would stare back up at me, or "Good Job!" "Great Work Ben!"

"Whoa, study much, Benjamin?" I asked.

"Ben," he interrupted.

"What?"

"Call me Ben," he said with a hint of smile on the corners of his mouth.

"All right, Ben. Hey listen," it suddenly dawned on me an ingenious – if I do say so myself – idea. It wasn't that original, but no one has ever accused me of that. "Do you tutor people?"

"Huh?" he looked up at me, distractedly, still rustling his mountain of books and papers.

"Tutor," I faced him. "I know you must be busy studying for those college-level A.P. classes, and what-not, but have you ever considered it?"

"I re-really haven't thought about it," he flustered said, full of embarrassment. But why should _he_ be embarrassed?

"Well, think about it now," I firmly stated, handing over the last bunch of papers as we rose from the ground. "Listen, I need some help in some of my classes – you don't feel like you have to or anything," I gestured my head toward the direction where the jocks disappeared to. "You don't owe me anything. But I was wondering. I'd even _pay_ you –"

"No-no, you don't have to do that –"

"No," I said. "I really mean it. Just – just say you'll at least think about it, all right?" I really needed his help. Dad was nice enough – what am I saying, Dad's always nice; but it didn't mean I should push it – not to ground me for the rest of the year, so it was my duty to work on my grades. Let's face it; Benjamin – _Ben_ – was our class Valedictorian. Can you get a better tutor than that? I think not.

"Okay," he still seemed unsure, so I whipped out a pen from my binder's little zipper-pack, and grabbed Ben's left hand. "This is my number," I said, scribbling it onto the palm of his hand, which was, I noted with surprise, rather large. "Call me if you want to tutor me. We'll decide how much I'm going to pay you over the phone, got it?"

Poor Ben didn't seem what to make of it all. I'm an assertive girl. I want something, I go for it. It makes things so much easier in the long-run. By then the bell had rung, the last of the late students were dashing through the halls, and slamming locker doors.

"Got to go," I said.

Ben just stood there, shocked, staring at his palm, and muttered distantly, "Yeah. Sure. Bye." He looked either shell shocked, like he couldn't believe what just hit him, or he must have thought I was crazy, and probably was thinking at this very moment, "I'm going to wash my hand five times over once she's gone."

But all I could do was cross my fingers and hope he would agree to help a girl out.


	2. Ice Cream and Icy Stares

A/N – Yes, I do update this quickly don't I? LOL! All reviews are much appreciated, as always. One of the people who reviewed my story – sorry, I didn't get a chance to look up your name mentioned that Jesse was alive. I know you didn't read the book, but …

SPOILER

Jesse _does_ come alive in the last book, for those who didn't know.

A/N – Sorry for the cheesy chapter title, but oh well. It was the best I could come up with in five seconds.

Disclaimer – As always, I don't own any of Meg Cabot's characters. She does. yawn I know; and I'm sure we _all_ know this by now.

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Ch. 2 Ice Cream and Icy Stares

The stereo system of Uncle Jake's decked-out, ancient Camero was crunked up to its highest volume setting. We had rolled up all the windows as the three of us screamed the lyrics at the top of our lungs to the rock song Uncle Brad put in on. All of us except for Uncle Dave; he appeared slightly annoyed as he looked up from the book he was reading. My Uncle Dave was a top scientist over at U.C. San Francisco; how cool is that? You can imagine back in first grade, my show-and-tell stories were pretty interesting when I got to bring in Uncle D.

"Rock history," Uncle Dave said in his booming deep voice – Mom says there was a time when Uncle David's voice was squeaky. Frankly, I find that rather hard to believe. "Originated form the Mid West…"

"We _know_!" the three of us shouted at the same time as the song slowly came to an end. "Quick Brad, switch over to a something different before David starts analyzing _that _song, too."

"Very funny Jake," Uncle Dave said humorlessly from the back seat.

"Guys, leave Uncle David alone," I said as I heard my cell phone ring. My ring tone was currently set to Green Day's _Boulevard of Broken Dreams_. I glanced at the phone's caller-ID, and my face scrunched into a look of confusion because I didn't know this telephone number.

"Yeah. Hello?" I clicked _Answer_, while I signaled Uncle Brad to turn down the volume.

"Hello, is Christina there?" A guy's voice was on the other end. And the last time a guy called me was like, um? Never.

"This is her speaking," I swatted Uncle Brad's hand away from the radio, and wagged my finger at him for trying to crank up the volume again. "Who's calling?" I asked.

The person on the other line cleared his throat. "It's me; Ben."

"Oh! Hey Ben!" Maybe I said that too enthusiastically because my very mature uncles started giving out cat-calls, and giving their own renditions of "Oh! _Hey_ Ben!" I shot them an annoyed look. It's funny how they can be around forty-six, but act like they're not a day older than sixteen. Sometimes, anyway. Fortunately they quieted down when I growled a low, "Shut _up_!" Then again, maybe they just did that because they had decided to spy on my conversation with – possibly for the first time ever – a boy.

"How'd you get my cell-phone number any way?"

"Oh, I called the phone number you gave me. Your mom said you were out of the house and then gave me your cell number. I hope that's all right with you?" He asked the last question nervously.

"Of course it is!" I laughed; that's because I was so happy. He called me, which means he was willing to tutor me!

"You're not _busy_ are you?" He asked, again, nervously. It's like he was too scared he was intruding on everything I did, that or he was scared of frightening me away. Boy did he wave the tables turned and mixed up. So I said, not wanting him to later change his mind, "Listen, I'm going to Blizzard's to get ice cream with my uncles. We're having a picnic – my whole family and everything. Come on. We'll pick you up. Want to join us? We'll talk about the whole tutoring subject over lunch."

"Well…" he seemed unsure. Did I sound too pushy? Was _I_ the one that was scaring him away! Feeling dejected, I brushed it off, "You don't have to come, Ben. I'm sorry. I wasn't considerate enough to think you might have some other plans –"

"-Yes, it's okay." He said in a rush.

"Yes?" I was confused, "as in?"

"As in, yes, I can come."

"Great," I smiled, with a sigh of relieve that he hadn't said no to me. I gave him the directions to the Blizzard's and hung up wit ha smile on my face.

"Does this mean we have to buy another ice cream on top of everything else?" Uncle Jake was the first to speak. I shot him a look. "He's' my guest," I simply said, "Don't worry; I'll pay for his ice cream."

"I'm just kidding, Chris. I don't mind paying –"

"– this 'Ben' fellow," cut in Uncle David. "Is he a decent sort of guy? Because, Chris, not all boys that are attractive to the female sex have good intentions."

"Yeah, some of them are like your Uncle Brad," added Uncle Jake.

"Hey!" Uncle Brad was insulted. "Even if I wasn't… well you know… it doesn't mean people don't change. Any way, your Uncle David's right, Chris, you got to be on your guard."

Where did this wave of protective feelings come from? Not that I don't love my uncles, and I'm pretty sure they love me. It's just; this was unexpected. I was touched.

"Thanks, guys," I said, feeling a little choked up. "But you have nothing to worry about. _Trust_ me. Ben is just going to tutor me; that's all."

Uncle Brad snorted. "Tutor. Yeah. Sure. That's what they _all_ say…"

"No, really-"

"I'm not sure I like the sound of this 'Ben' person," said a rather hostile Uncle Jake.

I was suddenly very, _very_ afraid for Ben. "The whole tutoring thing was my idea, I _swear_," it suddenly became very important for me to defend Ben.

"Huh. I'm sure that's why he'd like you think," was what Uncle Dave said.

I felt as though the car was a ticking time-bomb – courtesy of my three uncles.

Ben was outside of the store; I noticed him glancing at his watch every few seconds. "Ben!" I poked my head out of the car and waved some-what wearily. This was not going to be easy. As soon as Uncle Jake found a parking space and began parking the car, I scrambled to open my door, burst out, and madly dashed to him – not because I was happy to see him, even though I was, I mean, but to try to give Ben a fair warning before my uncles came.

_Too late_. My uncles were right behind me. All I got to do was say through my smiling teeth was, "Don't make any sudden moves." Ben gave me a puzzled expression as I turned to introduce my uncles to him. For the record, my uncles were big and… fairly capable of doing Ben some decent amount of bodily harm. I'm sorry but it's true. Uncle Brad, the wrestler, bench pressed 225 lbs. when he was in his mid-twenties. Even my Uncle Dave, the scientist, stood a fair 6'5". And even though Ben was very tall himself, let's face it; he didn't stand a chance.

My uncles towered over. Uncle Jake and Brad crossed their arms over their puffed-out chest in an alarmingly intimidating manner. They didn't seem too pleased to meet him. I was afraid that Ben would shrivel up and cower under the icy stare of my uncles, but no. He stood tall, and looked them back in the eyes. Wow. I was impressed. After a few very cold, very silent, and very frightening (for me) seconds, they all just stood outside like that. No one said anything; no one moved. And certainly _I _didn't breathe.

"This is Ben. Ben, these are my Uncles Jake, Brad, and David," I said nervously. Anxious to get them going, I reminded them, "Every one in the park is waiting for their ice cream; we had better get going, come on, Uncle Jake." I tugged on his arm fruitlessly, and then gave up.

Finally, Uncle Jake, the leader, said a stiff, cold, "Fine." He turned around and headed into the store. After a few seconds, Uncle Dave and Brad followed in his example. As soon as they were inside the store, I let out a sigh of relief.

"I meant to warn you Ben -" I began, in a rush.

"That your uncles have a homicidal look to them?" Ben smiled ironically at me. I had to laugh at that.

"I'm sorry for the way they were acting," I didn't mention that he was the first guy ever to call me, and that was the reason my uncles appeared so murderous. "And, I'll understand if you change your mind about the whole picnic deal," I said all in one breath, "But," I exhaled. "I _really_ hope you didn't change your mind about the whole thing," I looked up at him, twisting my fingers.

"Are you kidding me?" He looked astonished. "My parents look like the want to murder me half the time away." I had to smile at that. "This?" With a wave of his hand, he said proudly, "This is nothing."

So I laughed as he offered the crook of his arm and we walked into Blizzards for some sundaes and ice-cream shakes.

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AUTHOR'S NOTE: Next chapter! The actual picnic… gulp. 


	3. Picnics and Fireworks

A/N – Yay! I updated this one really soon, didn't I? Enjoy every one. Oh, yeah, and thank you so much for the reviews!

DISCLAIMER – I do not own any of Meg Cabot's characters. Meg Cabot owns them.

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Ch. 3 Picnics and Fireworks

"Your turn," I smiled at Ben while spooning an Oreo Flurry, one of my most favorite desserts.

"Um. I'd rather not." Ben said; his mouth full of the chocolate ice cream he'd been eating off a cone.

"Come on, that's not fair!" I demanded. "I told you mine!"

We were lying under the shade of a giant oak tree at the park. It was a glorious day, with the sun glittering up in the sky. My younger cousins were busy bombarding each other with water guns, running around terrorizing anyone and everyone in sight. I hear their shrieks of laughter in the background. Ben and I were hiding away in a secluded area of the park so that we would not have to lie in fear, wondering when the little monsters would strike.

Earlier, Grandpa Andy – he's the chef of the household and can cook a mean grill – was busy cooking for all twenty of us. We had hamburgers and hot dogs. It felt like the Fourth of July in March. Every one was here: my uncles, and their families, Grandma and Grandpa, and of course, my little terrors – er, cousins. And I say this with affection. Well, everyone except my father. Dad had a lecture down in U.C.S.D. (UC San Diego) and couldn't make it. And Mom? She just told me to have fun while she stayed home, working on her latest fashion designs.

But, besides Mom and Dad – and, right, my dad's _entire side of the family_ (but I suppose I accepted the fact that I just won't get to see them in this lifetime) – every one was here at the picnic.

That's why, not only was the whole My-Uncles-Would-Like-to-Murder-Ben thing was a nightmare (for me at least), and actually the drive back, and bringing him in one piece to the park, and all. No, that was nothing. Nothing compared to introducing him to my entire family.

That was like comparing snow-fall to an avalanche.

I haven't blushed so many times since the day we had "Sex-Ed" in Health my freshman year. Having Mr. Young (who, ironically was around the age of a hundred-and-ten) saying the word, "Penis" six times in a single sentence was nothing, _nothing_ compared to introducing Ben to no less than twenty people, explaining,

"No, Uncle Brad; no, Aunt Josie, Ben and I are not going out."

"But he is such a nice boy."

"You heard Chris, Josie," Uncle Brad growled. "They aren't dating."  
"Well, all I'm saying is," Aunt Josie inclined her head, "that it wouldn't hurt, Chris. And…"

My five year old cousin, Laura asked, "Are you two getting married, Chris?"

I saw Ben flushing form a pinkish-hue to a deep, dark maroon color. And I admit that I began feeling too warm for my comfort _ages_ ago. "Um no Laura, honey. We are not getting married… Ben is a friend who is a boy, that's all."

Little Laura wrinkled her little nose in deep thought. "Then how come," she finally said, tugging on her white-blond pony tail, "You never brought any boys to the picnics before?"

I could have died on the spot right there from morbid humiliation. It was like living out the movie, _Terminator_, but in a much more sick and twisted, conspiracy-sort of way. It was like they had all plotted out even before I arrived here, to kill me with embarrassment. Well, they succeeded, more or less.

So hiding from my little cousins wasn't the _only _reason, let's say, that I was hiding in this secluded lace with Ben. My horrifying, inquisitive relations happened to be another. Reason, I mean. Okay, okay; albeit, they acted much better after the initial introductions (which felt like they would never end) were over with. My Grandpa Andy even managed to engage Ben in some friendly conversation about sports. Which reminds me: I should get Grandpa an extra-nice present when his birthday comes around.

So after the whole Meeting and Greeting Nightmare, (it makes me think about the movie, _My Big Fat Greek Wedding,_ when the guy's parents come to visit the in-laws, really), we sat down for some ice cream. Until the water guns came about, that is.

The sun was already setting in the sky – the days were short, even if the weather was great – unraveling yards of silk-red ribbons into the rouge-colored night.

And that's where we were, under the tree, talking – more like arguing. I stared at Ben, disbelieving. "So you're not going to tell me?"

"What's there to tell?" He threw up his hands with insistence.

I narrowed my eyes at him. "Come on, just answer it: what was the most extreme thing you ever did on a dare?" And when he shook his head, I informed him, "I told you that I had to tell at least four older men – _much_ older men – that I thought they were hot. And I told, like, no one ever about that. Besides my friend who where there, I mean," I amended.

Ben just kept eating his ice cream in cool silence.

"Fine," I said primly. "I understand that you just are simply too boring, or else too smart to do something as _stupid _as a dare…"

"Hey!" he stared at me, surprised.

"No, it's fine. Really," I told Ben. I acted as though I didn't care. "We could talk about something else –"

"I had to put underwear on my head and ask my neighbor for some sausages," he said in a rush.

I blinked. Then I started cracking up. "You-you-?" I couldn't form a cohesive sentence I was laughing so hard. "You-I-can't beli-" Then I started laughing all over again.

"All right, that's it," he said half-way smiling; Ben reached over to my Flurry, took my spoon, and flicked some ice cream at me.

I paused.

"You did not," I said slowly. "You just did _not_ fling my Flurry at me." By now Ben was trying his hardest not to laugh at me, and hold it all in. He was failing miserably. Finally, he let it all out with a, "Yes. I did," and it all came out, Ben was rolling on the grass, clutching his stomach. Now, I am not the one to just sit back and be outdone by anybody. So, I wiped some vanilla-and Oreo cookie flavored ice cream off my face. I then sweetly walked up to where Ben was lying helplessly on the ground, unable to stop laughing that he was already gasping for breath. Then I kneeled sweetly next to him, and just as sweetly poured the contents out my Flurry cup over Ben's laughing face.

I dusted my hands, and with a satisfied smile, began rising, but Ben grabbed me by the wrist, and pulled me down with him. He wasn't laughing any more. But I certainly was.

"Think that was funny, don't you?" He asked.

I chuckled out, "Yes. It was. Very much so."

"Oh," he said. "All right." Then took with his hand the chocolate ice cream off the cone he had been eating from, and began slathering it over my face as I shrieked and giggled a helpless, "No!" I kicked and flailed my arms and legs, but he had me pinned down good.

"That's not fair!" Those were the words I cried when he was done and let me go. I sat back up, and began trying to clean up my face. We took one look at each other and began laughing all over again. "Oh, that Flurry is all over your face Ben," I howled between giggles. "I want to eat it, but then I'm afraid I would have to then lick it off your face."

"Um, not such a good idea," Ben was attempting to get the Flurry off his face, too. "What would your relatives think if they saw you… and me like that? After all those insistences you made about us not going out?" Ben gave me a wry grin as I felt my face heat up once more. It was a rather funny sensation, really, with all the chocolate-flavored ice cream right there to cool it – my face, I mean – off.

"So, you heard that?" I apologetically asked him.

With another one of those smiles, Ben just told me, "Kind of hard not to overhear when every one is being silent, trying to listen what you have to say." This wasn't the first time I felt silly – stupid – for bringing Ben here. What made me think of it any way, but for the fact that he had called to take my offer on the whole tutoring business, and I was afraid if I didn't say "yes" to him now, he might change his mind.

Still, it didn't make me feel any less pathetic, nor make the day any less of a nightmare than it was already. So, for the second time today, I apologized to Ben. I owed him at least that much. "I'm sorry for – well, for everything, actually – my family, the Flurry," I gestured with my hand. "The whole, hellish day, really."

"Hum," Ben thought, as he rose. "Well, I guess it's not every day I get ice cream poured on my face by a deranged-"

"Hey!" I protested, as Ben helped pull me up to my feet, and we began walking back.

"- girl. I'm just telling things as I see them," He raised his hands up in defense, as I smacked his upper arm. With a laugh, he told me, "And then have a death-threat given to me by her uncles-"

"-when was this?" I asked. "Did they really?"

With a raise of his left eyebrow, he said, "I wasn't supposed to tell you; but any way…"

"-Nah-uh!" I was shocked.

"… then be ambushed by her entire family- something I'd hope never to experience until I was at _least _married," Ben rambled on, as though I had not interrupted. I began to laugh once more. "And after that, be fired at with water-guns, and have to be forced into hiding with the Ice Cream Lady…" he started cracking up too.

After he regained his composure from all of the laughing, Ben ended his speech by saying, "Yes, this had indeed been an once-in-a-lifetime – hopefully – experience. I think we could use those water guns, right about now." Our faces were almost clean, except – at least mine – was very sticky. We did need some water. "Care to track down the Toddler Commandos, Chris?" He asked, referring to my little cousins –and, of course, their water guns.

"I think you've had enough adventures, Odysseus," I told Ben, calling him the main character of Homer's epic Greek poem, "The Odyssey." Odysseus went from Greek isle to Greek isle for many years, unable to return home, because he pissed off the god of the seas, Poseidon, "To last you twenty years, at least. Let's just get back."

By then we were already there. I saw all the adults clearing up the last bit of the picnic things. The stars were coming up and Uncle Brad…

… He brought out the fireworks.

Literally. Uncle Brad was technically the pyro. of our family. Of course he just brought what was left over from last Fourth of July; the little fire crackers, and all sorts of other explosives that set off jets and streams of shimmering gold, red, blue, green and purple sparks. There were ones that crackled, ones that hissed and whistled. Everyone stood back and awed and gasped in amazement.

Uncle Brad even fished out those sparkly ones on a stick that people could hold, and it looked like the want of Cinderella's fairy godmother. While we where there, I was standing right next to Ben, and so I snuck a glance to see what he might be thinking.

I was astonished to find that Ben was smiling. He was genuinely having a good time, cracking jokes with Uncle Dave – who was the first of three to come around. Under the firecracker light, Ben's eyes were bright and happy, and he seemed at peace, like he enjoyed being here, and felt like he was one of us. Ben's brown, wavy hair glittered with red streaks from the evening light. I saw his profile. It was a rather good profile, actually. Ben's nose wasn't crooked, or too large. It was kind of like a noble one. Like an aristocratic nose – but not stuck up; in a good way. His lashes were long, and left lengthy dark shadows on his cheeks, and his lips –

"Something wrong?" Ben turned and whispered to me. He had caught me staring at him. Oh God! Ben leaned forward, and said words in my ear that caused a shiver to go up my spine, which it probably shouldn't have because the only words that Ben said were, "What time am I tutoring you at?"

Nervously –and I'm rarely nervous – I leaned toward him and on my tip-toes, I whispered back in his ear, "Eleven o'clock next Saturday. My house?"


	4. Attic Excavations

Chapter 4: Attic Excavations

I scrunched up my nose as I crept up the stairs and landed on Planet Dust Ball (also known as our attic). Mountains of formerly brown – currently a grayish green color, due to dust – packages of ancient photographs, wardrobes of clothes from back in the nineties (those would be my parents', not mine), and extremely rusted red tricycles (those would be mine, not my parents'). The roof was slanted, so I had to crouch a bit down and the odd pane of glass here and there allowed filtered sunlight to penetrate into the otherwise dark and dim room. I scrunched up, and wrinkled my nose once more. I only hoped that my allergies wouldn't start to –

"Achoo!"

act up. I gave a loud and noisy sniff, then hiked the bag I was carrying up higher, using my thigh to support it. The thing I was lugging around wasn't so much as heavy as it was bulky. Filled with many, many…

… stuffed animals, all right? If you laugh, I will stop telling this story right now (AUTHOR'S NOTE: not really). It isn't my fault I tend to be particularly attached to my stuffed animal teddy-bears, especially my Winnie the Pooh Bear (he's a classic! How can you not love Winnie the Pooh?), and my entire Care-Bears collection.

Ben was coming in – I glanced at my wrist watch – twenty minutes. I had to clear up these things before Ben arrived. I mean, what would he think of me? Not that I particularly care or anything; it's only because he's a guy. And guys talk about stuff like that don't they? Soon the whole school would be laughing at the fact that I refuse to give away my stuffed animals. Only I don't believe Ben would be the type to blab on me, but still. Not that there's anything wrong with keeping stuffed animals by this age. In fact, I believe people shouldn't try to grow up so fast. I know some kids can't wait to grow up quickly. What is there to really look forward to, though, but paying bills (shudder the thought), working nine-to-five, and coming home only to collapse in a heap, and then do it all over again?

I know what you're thinking. You're thinking that I am some sort of freaky eighteen-year-old who encourages this Never-Never Land-esque out take on life. All I'm telling you is to enjoy life in the now because you don't know when it will pass you by.

That's a lesson I've learned from constantly working with the dead for nearly my whole life.

And this is probably why I'm so assertive.

But that's just my idea on the whole thing.

With one final kiss on Pooh's cheek, and a pat on his yellowy-fluffy head, I turned on my heel to leave when I bight light from between two boxes beamed up and caught my eye. Instead of heading down the stairs, I walked over to see – not a flashlight as I first suspected – but a glittering, sterling sliver belt buckle that caught a ray of sunlight from one of the windows.

"D?" I read aloud the initial on it confusedly. This was certainly not my dad's. If the letter wasn't a dead give-away, the buckle itself was. It appeared to belong to some pompous, arrogant, conceited man who liked himself (hence, the elaborate 'D') as much as he enjoyed showing off. Then it hit me: What if it belonged to my grandfather, I thought, excitedly. Albeit, I wasn't too happy about the prospect of having a stuck-up, show-off for a grandfather, but… beggars cant' be choosers. 'D'? Daniel, Devon, Derrick, I quickly ran though all the 'D' names that I knew. Then I paused as the idea struck me like a dead-weight. David… Could this actually be my uncle's belt buckle, and not my Grandpa de Silva's?

I sadly started to put it back when I heard my mom's voice calling me from down the stairs.

"Chris!"

"Up here, Mom!" I called.

But if it really was my Uncle David's, what was it doing here in our attic?

"Chris, honey, I was looking all over for you," she reached over, and embraced me, stroking my hair as she kissed me affectionately.

Maybe, I thought, I could get some answers now. "Oh, I was just putting away my stuffed animals," I shrugged, reaching back for the belt buckle.

My mom frowned. "But you love your stuffed animals."

"Don't worry," I told her. "This is only temporary. Hey listen; do you know what this is?"

I handed her the silver thing. It was only when I glanced at my mom's face that I started to think that maybe I should not have done that. All the color had drained from her face and it looked like she had seen a…

a ghost, actually. Yet, the funny thing is, Mom has seen tons of ghosts. This was just a belt buckle. I would have, at any other time, found the circumstance some what amusing, except it wasn't. I was afraid Mom was going to have a coronary any second, so I snatched the thing out of her trembling, white hands. I said in a rush, "Well Mom, that's all right. Forget about the whole belt buckle thing. I'll just put this back…" Or throw it down the pits of Hell. Whichever happened to come first.

"Whe-where did you get this?" Mom asked, not steadily. She was in a horrible trance, still staring at her fingertips, even though there was nothing in them. It was as though she wasn't talking to me, but to herself. "I thought," she continued on. "we had gotten rid of this… long ago."

"Mom?" I asked, alarm sounding through the entire syllable. "Mom, are you all right? Mom, come on," I put my arm around her shoulders, and guided her down the steps. She was immobilized with fear. I wasn't feeling all that cool and courageous myself. Not because of the buckle, but from Mom's reaction to it.

We made it to the landing of the stairs. "I'm going to go finish cleaning my room," I spoke slowly, enunciating my words carefully. "Is there anything you wanted to tell me up there?" I pointed at the attic from where were just came from.

"Oh," My words finally sunk in, and with a slight shake of the head, and small smile, Mom said, "I was going to tell you, I'm leaving to go to the supermarket, do you want anything?"

"Oh no!" I said, dead serious. "Not in that state you're not. You're not going anywhere, much less driving. Go lie down, Mom." The mere thought of it, in my opinion, was out of the question.

"Who's the parent here, you or me?" Mom gave me an amused smile. I felt relieve come over me, like a tidal wave. She was returning back to her old self.

"Fine, go," I smiled, and then called after her as she walked away. "Just be home by three." I sounded like a concerned yet strict parent.

"Watch that tone, missy!" Mom replied back, but with an affectionate laugh. I knew I wasn't in trouble.


	5. New Lessons

Ch. 5: New Lessons

After Mom left, I snuck a peak at my watch. "10:50? Oh, shit!" I scurried over into my room, and like a great Olympic athlete, I madly finished cleaning the house in 5.5 minutes flat: a new world record.

I collapsed onto the living room couch, exhausted as though I just competed in the triathlon – you know, where the athletes have to swim, run, and then bike for miles? Let me just close my eyes for a minute, I thought to myself. Just one minute…

"_Chris," the purple cactus called me. Funny, cactuses don't talk. "_Chris_," the cactus said in a louder and more annoyed tone. "Go away!" I told it in a sleepy murmur. Cacti are so touchy; what'd I ever do to it, to get it that annoyed?_

_"That would be a little difficult to do, Christina, seeing as how you have a guest over."_

Guest? My eyes flung open to see my dad with his arms crossed, smiling at me with a hint of amusement in the corners of his mouth, and standing next to an equally amused –

"Ben!" I exclaimed, scrambling off the couch. I prayed to God: _Please don't let me have drooled, _please, _please_…

"Pleasant nap?" Dad patiently watched as I rubbed my sleepy eyes.

"Ummm…" what exactly was I supposed to tell my dad in front of my tutor? "Yeah. I guess," is what I settled for, accompanied by a shrug.

"Well, Benjamin," my father turned, seeing that all was set into order. "Nice meeting you," he stuck out his hand, and Ben shook it. "I leave you in the hands of my daughter. If she misbehaves or –" Dad gave me a sideways glance, "starts napping again." Ben nearly choked on a laugh on that one. I gave my dad an I-am-not-amused glare which he blatantly ignored, "just call me up. I'll be in my room down the hallway," he pointed. "Don't hesitate."

Wow, it's so nice to have a father who supports you and is always on your side.

"And Chris?" the oh-so-supportive (not) father told me.

"What, Dad?" I groaned in annoyance.

"Don't give this fine young man a hard time, all right?"

"Okay, I promise," I was in a hurry to shoo my dad away. "We got it, right Ben?"

"Right," he smiled. "Nice meeting you, Mr. de Silva."

"Please, call me Jesse," Dad insisted.

"Okay. All right. He knows. Bye now, Dad." I have him a gentle push on the beck to make sure he kept walking out of the living room. When my dad was finally gone, I gave a loud sigh of relief.

"I like your dad," Ben said, with a pleased smile. "He's cool."

"He likes you, too," I said bluntly. Seriously, when was the last time my dad took the side of a guy (okay, my friends at least, seeing as how I've never brought home a "boy" before) over me?

Ben's eyes widened with surprised, which reminded me to tone down my straight-forward answers. Still, Ben recovered, and asked me, unsurely, "How can you tell?"

I raised an eyebrow up, and said to him in amused voice, "Trust me, if he didn't like you, Ben, you'd know." I gave him a pat on the back, while those words finally sunk in, and with a push, led Ben into my room, where I study.

As soon as I saw the expression on Ben's face when he realized what room I had led him in – you know, my bedroom – I immediately regretted my decision in bringing him in.

"Um, yeah. Sorry about that, Ben; it was an automatic reaction. I usually come here to study when I do my homework. If you feel more comfortable in the living room," I was already beginning to slowly back out of my bedroom. "We'll just head over there. Ben?" I was carried away with blabbering on, as I tend to sometimes do when I'm nervous, (I got that from my mom. Gee, thanks Mom) that I didn't notice Ben _wasn't_ following me out of my bedroom.

I poked my head back in there, "Ben?" I called.

Ben was still in my bedroom, looking around as though it was an intriguing and engrossing exhibit at an art museum. After a long time of peering at old awards hung on my walls, (from my third grade spelling-bee, to this year's fourth-pace medal at an essay-writing contest), to the movie posters (_Lord of the Rings_, of course; and _Dirty Dancing_), to the collection of odds-and-ends jewelry piled up in the corner of my dresser-top. There was a clarinet peaking out from under my bed (which had an ocean-blue color bedspread on it – my bed I mean), gathering dust, a rembrandt from my phase when I was bent on becoming a musical child protégé, but called it quits when I found out it actually required work to become proficient on the clarinet.

I stood back, admiring how clean my bedroom was. And not a stuffed animal in sight, I thought to myself, smugly.

"So," Ben simply declared after he was through looking around. "_This_ is your room."

I crossed my arms and smiled. "This is the first time you've ever been in a girl's room isn't it?" I hadn't said it to embarrass the guy, I was just commenting on his reaction about the whole thing.

Ben shrugged. He took off his backpack, which he had brought with him, and set it on the ground. I was surprised. "You know," I said. "We could study in the living room," I pointed down the hall.

Ben shook his head, "Nope. Rule Number One about studying: have a set place for doing your homework. That way, when you sit down," Ben demonstrated by plopping down on my desk chair, "Your brain will automatically associate that place with studying. That's why we are going to study here."

"Wow," I blinked at him, impressed. See? I knew I chose the right man for the job. "You certainly know your stuff."

Ben shrugged off my compliment. "Do you have another chair for me?" he asked, all of a sudden becoming the gentleman and offered me the chair he was just in.

"Oh, here," I left the room, and brought him one.

We sat down comfortably and set to studying. My best subject was Spanish – um, hello, I have my dad to help me with that class. I found government the most difficult, so we focused on that.

"What's the most challenging subject for you?" I asked, conversationally. "I mean, after all, you are only the most brilliant student at West Carmel High," I teased him. "Surely the great Ben Matthews has an Achilles' Heel."

"I have AP classes," he was grinning, the corners of his mouth curled upwards. "They all follow a different curriculum than normal classes."

"Fine. But still," I persisted. "I want to know: which class?"

"Honestly?" Ben gave me a rueful smile.

"Yeah."

"English."

"English?" my eyes widened with surprise. "Why?"

"The thing is," Ben looked away, uncomfortably. "We're going though poetry, and that's just the prob-"

"Poetry?" I sprang up excited.

"Well, yeah -" Ben looked at me curiously, as I dashed over and began rummaging though the top drawer of my dresser, which was filled with all sorts of odds and ends. "Ah ha!" I cried triumphantly when I found what I was looking for – a dogged, tattered, raggedy spiral notebook. I bounced back over and hopped in my seat.

"'Ah ha' … what?" Ben looked puzzled.

"'Ah ha' _this_," I thrust my notebook towards Ben, and he began flipping through its old, worn pages.

"You write poetry!" He declared with amazement after a few short moments.

"Yup," I said, proud of myself.

"This – this is actually _good_," Ben couldn't keep the surprise from seeping into his voice as he rummaged through and read a handful of them. "_Very_ good. But I couldn't help but notice two things," he told me, as he handed back my poetry notebook.

"And that would be?" I raised a guarded eyebrow up. I didn't take criticism of my work too well. I know that's bad, and I should be able to, but… they're like my babies you know? And you can't just insult any one's baby and expect them to be happy about it.

"Nothing bad, I mean," Ben amended hastily. "But, it's just that I didn't see two types of poetry in it – two very major genres: love and angst poems."

"Yeah, but good sir," I said, in a mock-old-English tone as I flipped past the section of blank sheets of paper in the middle to the very last pages of my notebook. "Thou doest not look _hard_ enough."

There, at the last pages of the notebook, resided my angst poems, filled with imageries of sorrow, grief, and plain black moodiness.

Ben flipped through those as well. "I see…"

"I put them in the back," I said, feeling as though I needed to explain. "Because even though I write sad poems on occasion, putting them at the end reminds me that whatever pain I'm going through now, the good in life will forever outshine the temporary anguish we experience 'today.' All of my brighter poems are in the beginning, in case you didn't notice that, too."

He nodded, with comprehension on his face. "True."

"But still," he said in a different tone. "Why no love sonnets? You didn't answer that part of the question,"

"Oh, _that_. I believe that authors should write what they know -"

"– a very good premise," he interrupted, and laughed. I smacked him in the upper arm for being so obnoxious – but a nice obnoxious.

"- and to write what about something you don't know anything about would be stupid-" I continued.

"- not stupid, per say-" he corrected me. "But difficult, yes. So that's why you don't write poetry about love?" he asked.

"Yeah," I replied, neutral.

"Because you only write what you know?"

"Yup."

Meaning…" he gestured with his hand for emphasis. "…that you've never fallen in love before?"

"Well… yeah," I gave an unembarrassed shrug. "Oh don't look so surprised," I exclaimed, indignantly. "I mean, this coming from you, who claimed that you can't get poetry."

"I'm not surprised by the whole 'not writing about love' thing, but by the fact that you haven't fallen in love before." I bluntly corrected me.

It was my turn to look amazed. "Why is that so shocking?" I asked.

"Well," Ben looked away, seemingly horrified with humiliation. "You are kind of pretty," he said in a rush, awkwardly and uncomfortably embarrassed. "And outgoing; not to mention really outspoken."

"Aw, thanks Ben," I gushed. But I didn't get a chance to be too mushy with my thank yous, because Ben promptly switched over to a different subject. "So, back to English. The whole poetry thing…"

"Right," I said, getting to business, flipping through my notebook. What just happened here? It's almost as if we did a one-eighty degree flip-turn, and now I was the tutor, and he, the student. "You understand the essential tools of poetry, I presume, correct? What a metaphor, a simile, a meter, and all of that are and how they are used?" I elaborated.

He nodded "Yes." Taking that as my cue, I riffled though the pages of lyrical rhymes, haikus, and blank-verse poetry. "For example, in this line here," I pointed. _Like a candle hidden among the shadows_, the line went.

Ben leaned over my shoulder to get a closer look. I turned my head to the slightest degree, to see if Ben was paying attention, and I was all of a sudden alarmingly aware that his face was barely a few millimeters from mine. Ben wasn't looking at the poem. He was looking piercingly dead into my eyes.

My breath hitched, caught somewhere in my throat. I was so close that I could have easily counted every single last one of his long, inky-black eyelashes, which were drooping over his eyes in a manner that was too alarmingly sexy for my peace of mind. And his amber eyes were burning fervently, with some sort of tempest-storm, so penetrating, that it was almost forced to carry over that storm into my eyes.

Every one of these reasons alone would be a valid reason to set a girl's poor heart racing, but when they were all striking together? The force of it was too strong to do anything _but_ get my heart beating as fast as my furiously scratching, scribbling pen, when I have just been inspired to write a brilliant, moving poem. I would write the words down so rapidly, all that was left was to hope to God I would forget the moving words I was thinking of. That's how fast my heart raced.

All the while this occurred – which was only a work of a few, heavenly seconds, really – Ben didn't pull away (so neither would I). Quite the opposite: Ben started leaning in.

Ever fiber, every nerve in my body was shutting down, and began being lost in the thrill and apprehension of a (apparently) marvelous kiss approaching me. We were so close that I felt his warm breath tickle my skin. I leaned, about ready to kiss him.

Until I saw it down the hall.

I could have just closed my eyes, and ignored the thing and kissed Ben, but the sight was so unexpected that instead of closing my eyes, as I should have, and making the distance between Ben's mouth and mine _zero_, I turned and looked at the silver glimmer (which flashed like the belt buckle from the attic, now that I think about it) outside my room, and in our hallway.

That's when I realized what it –

or should I say, _he_ - since it was definitely a he - was. And he caught me staring at him; so the guy sauntered over in my room, and crossed his arms across his chest. His face was contorted into a permanent scowl.

Finally I remembered – Ben!

What was Ben doing – thinking – right now? He certainly wasn't kissing me, that's for sure. I found that he was staring in the same direction I was.

Impossible, I thought. It must be Ben's reaction to what I was doing. He was probably trying to figure out what I had been staring at. Only Ben couldn't see it, because the man I was staring at happened to be…

dead.

A ghost. Extremely mortified, I rushed, "I just have to go to the kitchen really fast. I forgot. I was supposed to phone… Ashley… hold on a sec." I scrambled to my feet. Either he thought I didn't like him and didn't want to kiss him, (I didn't… did I? Well, back there, I desperately did. I wanted to be kissed by him more than I cared to think about. Why? Did I like him? Well, did I?) or he thought I was some sort of freaky girl with a tendency of "remembering" what she had to do at the worst possible moments… like now.

The scowling man crooked a long, wicked-looking tan finger in our direction. He was dressed up like he came straight out of the _Wild, Wild West_ film. Or _Zorro_, even. What, he wanted a conference too? Geez. Ben suddenly shot up like he just sat on a porcupine. "You know, I need to go to the restroom. Can you show me where it is?"

Gosh, scare away boys much, I thought quietly to myself. Its wonder why boys aren't flocking to my door, asking me out (not). Still, that's what I get for being a freaky girl who can see dead people.

With my head bowed down in private, silent shame, I was about to lead him to the restroom, when the dead cowboy looked at us, and said rudely, with a sardonic, unpleasant sneer, "I don't need to talk to the two of you. Just the girl."

Ghosts. When will they ever learn, I pondered. So through gritted teeth in the shape of smile, I hissed to him, "He can't _hear_ you, idiot."

Ben froze as soon as that hiss escaped out from between my teeth.

Crap. _Ben_ heard me, too. Now not only am I "mad woman" (as Ben so plainly put it, back at the picnic) in his eyes, but I'm also some sort of freak who talks – hisses – to herself.

Before I could give some sort of reasonable excuse, he murmured quietly, frightened as though he was walking over a glass bridge, and a wrong step would send him crashing through into a bottomless canyon, he was careful as he asked me, "Could you hear the voice, too?"

I panicked, and replied swiftly, "I heard it, if you heard it."

"I heard it if _you_ heard it," he whispered back.

The world as I knew it would forever be flipped upside-down, inside out with these words: "Chris," Ben said slowly. "Don't tell me you can see ghosts too."

Ghosts. He saw ghosts, too. He _saw_ them; like Mom, Dad; like _me. _He was a mediator.

I had to sit down. I was going to throw up. Oh God! I was going to faint. Was the rooming spinning or was it just me?

It was the ghost-dude who replied for me, in a disgusted voice, "Of course she can. Why else would she be talking to me?"

I barely heard these words. I was too preoccupied with leaning against the wall, and trying to keep breathing.

I was hyperventilating. I don't remember having done so before, now that I thought about it. Was I supposed to put my head between my legs, or was that for asthma attacks?

I was _really_ going to hurl now. I finally managed to pull my gaze from the ceiling, which I had been staring at, to Ben, wondering how he was talking all of this news.

Our eyes me, and his eyes widened, like mine. It felt like we were truly seeing each other for the first time.

"Chris?" he asked, in a nervous , raspy voice.

I gave a trembling nod of my head. "He's right. I can. See ghosts, I mean."


End file.
